Free Will
by chappysmom
Summary: In the aftermath of a huge family secret being revealed, John has to rethink things-and what better way than by asking his father? (10 chapters, part 3 of the Mistaken Identities series)
1. Chapter 1

NOTE:

Part 3 of the Mistaken Identities series. Follows "Mistaken Identities" and "A Chat With an Old Family Friend," and therefore includes spoilers for both of them. It definitely helps if you've read them first.

Obviously, I don't own the characters (other than the Littlestons) and have no connection to the BBC Sherlock. I just love visiting.

* * *

**The day after the events of "Mistaken Identities."**

Sherlock stood in the Watson family living room, holding a cup of tea and staring at the family portrait over the fireplace.

John was about five years old and, Sherlock had to admit, quite adorable in that blond-haired, blue-eyed way of his. He was sitting in his mother's lap and just beaming out of the picture, happy with the world. (Sherlock sniffed. It was John. Of course he was happy.) Harry was standing beside him, hair in plaits, and smiling—no sign of the bitterness ever-present in her face as an adult.

The parents, though. John's mother looked just as happy as her son, but John's father? Sherlock studied his face. The patriarch of the family, proud and strong. Kindness in the lines of his face, but there was a strain around the eyes, a glint of something haunting in their depth. Nobody knew it yet, but the man was starting to break.

"He was a cute kid, wasn't he?" Harry's voice came from the doorway.

"Yes." Sherlock turned and saw her leaning against the door jamb, fluffy robe over her nightgown. "You look tired."

She shrugged. "I didn't sleep well. Between John coughing up his lungs in the next room and, well, the rest of it…"

"It's been a stressful week."

"To say the least." She looked back at the portrait. "Studying that for any particular reason?"

Sherlock gave her a tight smile. "You all look very happy."

Crossing the room, she came to stand next to him. "Yeah, we were. Then."

She said nothing for a few moments as they both looked at the young faces, forever happy in their frame. "So, what exactly happened yesterday? What was that idiot after? What could Mum possibly have had in her diary that would make him come after it? And threaten John?"

Sherlock looked down at her rumpled hair. "You should ask your brother."

"He's asleep," she said bluntly, "And I thought you didn't want him bothered. So I'm asking you."

"Nevertheless, this is not a conversation we're having without John." He looked back to the portrait. "I'm surprised you still have this up. There aren't any other family pictures in the room."

She shrugged. "Mum and Dad practically built the wall around that picture. To take it down, I'd have to dismantle it. It's just easier to leave it there." She turned and walked back to the door. "I'm going to go have a shower. When Johnny wakes up, tell him we're going to be having a chat as soon as I'm done. I want answers."

#

Half an hour later, Sherlock was sitting over the newspaper when John walked into the kitchen. "Yes, I took my medicine," he said before Sherlock could open his mouth. "God. You're such a mother hen."

Sherlock smiled. "I learned from the best, though I don't see how you do this all the time. It's exhausting." He nodded at the bag on the table. "There are some pastries, courtesy of Mycroft."

"Good of him," said John, filling the kettle at the sink. "He has a fine future ahead of him as a caterer if this government thing doesn't work out."

"Well, he's always been fond of food." Sherlock turned the paper over. "Harry was up earlier, and asking questions."

Oh, wonderful. John was so looking forward to _that_ conversation. He leaned against the counter. "What did you tell her?"

"That it was a conversation you needed to be present for. I did wonder one thing, though." John lifted his eyebrows. "That family portrait in the living room. Your mother's note said your father would protect the contract, but what if she didn't just mean he would uphold its terms? What if he is actually _protecting_ it? What if it's behind that portrait?"

"But it's built into the … oh. I see." John was already walking into the other room, Sherlock following. "I never wondered why they would have built the bloody picture into the wall, but that would certainly keep something safe, wouldn't it?"

"My thought, exactly. Especially since there don't seem to be any other pictures about that could be hiding suspicious paperwork."

"I do have a couple framed photos back at the flat, though. Ones Mum had next to her bed," John said thoughtfully, still staring at the portrait on the wall. "But they're back at Baker Street. Any way to see if there's something behind this without dismantling Harry's wall?"

"What's this about my wall?" They both spun around. Harry was standing with her hands on her hips, ready to burst into full tirade.

"We're just wondering if whatever Littleston was looking for is behind this picture," John told her, placating. He hurried over to give her an awkward kiss. She was always so bad-tempered in the morning, even without a hangover.

"I thought he wanted the diary?"

John nodded. "He did, because the diary had a clue to something hidden, something he wanted to have. We just don't know what."

Harry glared at Sherlock. "This is your fault, isn't it?"

An elegant eyebrow rose. "Mine? This is your mother's diary we're talking about, not mine."

She looked furious, but couldn't find fault with that, though she clearly wanted to. She looked between the two of them and then said, "Fine. If you can manage without destroying the house, go to it." And she flounced to the couch and sat down, arms crossed.

John and Sherlock looked at each other and John rolled his eyes. Harry would never change. "The tools are in the garage, still?" he asked, and headed off to fetch them before she could answer. When he came back, Sherlock had moved a vase (tacky silk flowers) and an alarmingly cheap figurine of a girl carrying boxes off the mantle and had fetched a kitchen chair to stand on.

Fifteen minutes and a cloud of dust later, the portrait was off the wall. Harry came off the sofa as Sherlock lifted it down, trying to nudge John out of the way. Sherlock said nothing, but angled the back of the picture toward John. An envelope was taped to the back, his name written on it.

He reached for it, coughing, and then protested when Sherlock slapped his hand away. "Oi, that's mine, Sherlock!"

"There's too much dust and you're coughing too hard. We'll take it into the kitchen." And with a complete disregard for the mess, Sherlock swept into the other room, carrying the envelope with him. Harry and John exchanged glances, sharing a rare moment of sibling accord, before they trailed into the kitchen behind him.

#

In the kitchen, Harry plunked herself down at the table and reached for the bakery bag.

John automatically went to the sink to wash his hands, flicking the kettle back on. He reached for cups and plates in the cabinet and then measured tea into a pot, all while very much NOT looking at the envelope on the table.

Sherlock watched curiously as Harry's face began to grow red, her eyes going back and forth between her brother and the envelope, impatience building. The instant she started to reach for it, he slid his hand over it. "It's addressed to John."

She glared at him. "As if you didn't want to know what's inside. And you, Johnny. What are you waiting for?"

John wiped his hands on his jeans and carried the teapot to the table. "Maybe I don't want to know."

Harry's face grew even redder. "How is that possible? I was _kidnapped_ for whatever is in that envelope! So was your precious Sherlock!"

John heaved a sigh. "I know, Harry. I'm sorry."

Sherlock's face was neutral as he observed them. Their interaction was so different than his and Mycroft's, but they were obviously siblings. They clearly didn't get along, yet had a long history of knowing each others' mannerisms, weaknesses … and the buttons to push to get a rise. He found he did not like the way Harry was trying to dominate John, either, or the way John shut himself down to avoid her badgering. And he still looked tired.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Maybe if I told Harry some of the things she missed yesterday?" he offered. "While you eat something?"

Sherlock met John's eyes, trying to let him see his concern. "Yeah, why don't you do that, Sherlock. I'll save my voice. All that coughing, you know."

Sherlock hid a smile and turned to Harry. "It started with a note that Andy Littleston found in his father's things." He went on to explain how the diary had a photo hidden in the back. He told her how they had discovered that the Watson family mortgage had been paid by LSE. He told her that Ian Littleston was ill, and this his son—notoriously jealous of his older brother—had found the beginning of this trail in his father's things. And how Sherlock had taken steps to make sure John would be protected.

By this time, Harry's jaw was almost on the table, and she was staring at John in disbelief. He just sat at the table, hands wrapped around his tea, staring at the steam wisping up from the cup.

"I don't believe it," she said. "Johnny, tell me he's making this up!" He still just stared, so she turned back to Sherlock. "Do you have these pictures with you?"

John said, without looking up, "In my bedroom, Sherlock. I didn't want to leave them at Baker Street last night."

Sherlock gave Harry a look that said don't-pester-him and got up to fetch the diary. He paused a moment in John's boyhood room. Harry had barely changed a thing, other than taking down whatever posters had been hung on the walls. They left bright rectangles on the otherwise faded wallpaper she hadn't bothered to replace. There were no toys or trophies on the bookcase, but the furniture was still obviously what John had grown up with. Utilitarian pieces, a desk, a dresser, a narrow bed, all a bit battered about the edges but otherwise taken care of.

He only took the time to give the room a cursory glance (much as he would have liked to study this Museum of John exhibit longer), then he swept the diary off the bedside table and hurried back to the kitchen.

John and Harry were still sitting in silence, not moving. Sherlock pulled the photo of Ian Littleston and their Mum out of the diary and handed it to Harry, who just stared. Then, with a glance at John, he showed her the baby photo that had been in the note Andy had found. "It appears that your mother and Ian Littleston cut all contact after John was born, but each of them kept mementos."

He glanced at John.

"And then there's whatever is in that envelope."

#

John sighed. "Right," he said, and reached for the envelope. Using a knife from the table, he slit the envelope open and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

The cover sheet was a note from his mother. At the sight of her familiar handwriting, his eyes blurred.

"_…Your father was a good man … knowledge weighed on him. … in all the ways that mattered … not your biological father … promised when you were a baby … couldn't bring myself to tell you … father's name was Ian Littleston. … never regretted … gave me you … offered to do more … hard enough for your father's pride … love you always …_"

John couldn't take it in. He sat, stunned, until Harry pulled the letter right out of his hands. He looked up then and saw Sherlock's annoyance, and handed him the very legal looking contract as well as (another shock), a notarized letter from Ian himself, acknowledging John as his son.

Well, he could see how Andy would feel threatened by _that_. He wrapped his hands around his now-cold cup of tea.

After the events of yesterday, it's not like any of this was a surprise, exactly, but seeing it written straight out in black and white made it so much more real.

Harold Watson was not his father; Ian Littleston was.

Harry was still staring at him. "What are you going to do?"

He looked up at Sherlock. What _was_ he going to do? He didn't know what Sherlock read in his eyes, but his friend nodded to himself and stood up abruptly, with John automatically rising to his feet as well.

"I'd say it's time you met your father, don't you think?"

#


	2. Chapter 2

"I'd say it's time you met your father, don't you think?"

It wasn't quite that simple, of course. First, they had to pry themselves away from Harry. ("Sorry about the wall.") Then, Sherlock had been right; Mycroft's car was waiting for them at the curb when they walked out the front door. Baker Street was their first stop.

Naturally, Mycroft stopped by to check up on them. He had disappeared the night before as soon as he had seen Sherlock was safe, but judging by the way he bustled into the flat, he had not been idle.

John stood to greet him when he came in. "I want to thank you for yesterday, Mycroft," he told him sincerely while Sherlock made faces. "I'm sure Harry would be grateful, too."

"I'm sure," said Mycroft with a tone that suggested he thought no such thing. John couldn't suppress a grin. Harry's gratitude was so often hard to spot. "And you're feeling better this morning, John? Yesterday's adventure had no ill effects?"

John shrugged. "I'm coughing less, but my head is reeling more. It's a toss up. Tea?" He headed to the kitchen just as Sherlock and Mycroft began their daily squabbling. He wasn't joking about his head spinning, though he had no illusions about it being because of the fever any more.

He soothed himself with the familiar task of making tea and then carried the tray into the sitting room and poured cups for each of them. He saw his mother's letter on the table next to Mycroft and assumed he had read it. Sitting back in his chair, he just waited.

"Seeing this letter from your mother, and the note from your … father … goes a long way to explaining yesterday's events. They give Andrew Littleston a remarkably strong motive for wanting you dead, John."

"Well, he's not the first. I do wish he hadn't targeted my sister and best friend on the way, but …" John shrugged and sipped his tea.

"He didn't target me, John," Sherlock said. "He didn't even know who I was."

"Fame can be so fleeting." John tried not to grin at the expression on Sherlock's face, and was delighted when Sherlock matched him with a grin of his own.

For once, Mycroft watched them indulgently. He had been more forgiving of their "childishness" since Sherlock's return. He sobered quickly, though. "I'm sure it won't come as a surprise to know that Ian Littleston has been informed of yesterday's events?"

"His son being arrested for kidnapping? Fathers do like to be kept informed of these kinds of things."

A tight smile. "Indeed. It's unfortunate that his health is so poor. Having this come out now is going to be quite a burden for a dying man."

John met his eyes. "As if there were an alternative?"

"Sadly, no. Andrew's actions rather forced his hand. Though it should be possible to control the way the story is released. We don't want the sordid details splashed gaudily on the front page of all the tabloids."

John winced. He hadn't thought of that. He and Sherlock had spent far too much time being screamed about by the press. With their notoriety, news that he was Ian Littleston's son would make the newsstands explode.

"With everything else, I hadn't even thought about the press," he said weakly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe his fever was coming back after all. Crawling into bed for the next month or two sounded altogether appealing.

"I would think Andy would be delighted to draw as much attention to this as possible, if it would help put John in a bad light," suggested Sherlock.

"Exactly. Which is why I spoke with Ian Littleston this morning," said Mycroft. "He's very ill, but he'd like to meet you, John. And time is of the essence."

#

Saying he would send a car at 3:00, Mycroft left and John said he was going to go lie down for a while. "And I'd better have the right cough syrup this time, Sherlock," he'd said as he headed for the stairs.

Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play, thinking hard. Littleston had come to consult Sherlock when his eldest son was killed and met John on his way out—though John never learned his name. Littleston had known perfectly well who John was, though.

Sherlock didn't know how much of that brief meeting John remembered now, but was sure that it would come back to him when he and Ian Littleston met officially this afternoon.

At which point it would likely come out that Sherlock had known—well, suspected—this relationship all along. That he had known that Andy had killed his brother, and was likely to come after John when he found out about him.

And that he had kept all this from John.

He tried to foresee all the ways this could blow up in his face when John found out. His head might understand that Sherlock couldn't divulge this secret, but still—since Sherlock's … absence … after Jim's Final Game they had promised no life-changing secrets.

John was going to be angry.

The irony was that John regularly scolded him for his lack of discretion, for blurting out everything he knew when he met people. He just hoped that this would be one act of discretion wouldn't be held against him.

#

At 2:00, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock answered opened it and found Anthea dimpling on the other side. She handed him a take-away bag. "Dr. Watson seemed to enjoy this yesterday, and I thought he'd need something nourishing before we leave in an hour."

Sherlock looked at her suspiciously. She hadn't been this thoughtful of John before they learned of his connection to Ian Littleston, had she?

Watching him right back, her smile widened as she simply held out the bag. "Don't worry, he's not my type."

Sherlock snatched the bag and shut the door in her face, trying not to admit that she probably had a point. John really should eat something before they left.

He was just thinking about going up to wake him when John came down the stairs. "Who was at the door?"

"Apparently Anthea thought you might be hungry," Sherlock told him. "She brought you soup."

John's eyes brightened. "I see why Mycroft keeps her around."

"She says you're not her type."

"Now, Sherlock, jealous doesn't suit you." John glanced at the clock. "Right. I'll have just enough time to take a shower before we go. I think I may actually be feeling human again."

"You do look better than yesterday. Thanks to my excellent care, no doubt."

"Especially that nice, restful nap yesterday morning," John said, opening the soup. "Which reminds me. What did you do with the rest of that cough syrup, Sherlock?"

"Don't worry, I put it in a safe place. You never know when it might come in handy."

John rolled his eyes. "Just remember what I said about secrets, Sherlock."

A knot in his stomach. "Believe me, John. I remember," was all he said.

#

3:20 and their car was smoothly cutting through London traffic while John tried not to fidget. It was undignified and unbefitting a military man. Especially one sitting with London's most observant detective who also happened to be his best friend.

Not that he minded (much) that Sherlock could see right through him on an ordinary day, but there were times when a man could use a little privacy inside his own head, at least.

And this, of course, was no ordinary day. Today, he was meeting his father.

"I wonder how much he knows?" he finally asked.

"About yesterday's events?" Sherlock shrugged. "The key elements, no doubt. That Andy abducted your sister and threatened you. I'm sure Mycroft told him that you have learned his secret."

John nodded, forcing a swallow down his tight throat, trying to suppress another coughing fit. He didn't say anything, though. Oddly enough, neither did Sherlock, who was unusually quiet on his side of the car.

To John's surprise, the car pulled up in front of a private home, not a hospital. But then, Ian Littleston could afford to whatever medical care he wanted. Why should he put up with the discomfort of a hospital?

He climbed out of the car and tugged at his jacket. What had possessed him to put on a suit for this meeting? He would have felt more comfortable in his own, regular clothes. He never felt quite like himself when dressed in clothes that weren't designed to allow for immediate action. (How did Sherlock manage?) Suits made him feel enclosed in another skin, one that was constricting, limiting him only to what was considered polite and proper.

But then, in its way, this entire visit was about putting on a new skin.

Stretching his neck to ease the scar on his shoulder, he saw Sherlock watching him, eyes dark. He gave him a brief nod. "Let's do this."

The butler (?) already had the door open as they approached. "Good afternoon. If you would wait here, Mr. Holmes," he gestured to a door to the right, "Mr. Littleston asked to see Dr. Watson alone to begin. If you would follow me, sir?"

John drew a deep breath and, with a glance back, followed him up the stairs. You've been to Buckingham Palace, he told himself firmly, trying to regain a sense of proportion. This is nothing more than a debriefing—a very odd, formal debriefing—to a father you've never met. Nothing unusual. Feeling abandoned because Sherlock was staying down here was pure nonsense, he told himself.

But still, the staircase felt very large.

Walking down a wide hallway, the butler paused to open a door, bowing him in. Just then, his mobile beeped.

_-At least you're wearing more than a sheet. SH_."

John stifled a giggle, suddenly feeling much happier about the whole mess and walked into the room.

#


	3. Chapter 3

He was met by a nurse who gave him very strict instructions not to tire her patient and then ushered him through another door into the largest bedroom John had ever seen. Luxurious while still functional. Not fussy like he had expected. (But then, what did he know about the lifestyles of the extremely rich?) No gilt or antiques to be seen was all he really knew. It looked like the room of a serious man who enjoyed being comfortable. John had no idea how the effect was created, but he found he liked it.

The only discordant note was the array of medical machines clustered next to the bed, blinking at each other.

John had taken all of this in at a glance and now looked at the man in the bed. He knew the man was dying of cancer, and had been prepared to find him nearly unconscious. Instead, he was relieved to see the man—his father—sitting up against a generous pile of pillows, working on a laptop balanced on a bed tray. Not that he wasn't used to the infirm and dying, he told himself, just that they were much harder to talk to.

Suddenly shy, he hung back by the door a moment and then John gave a small cough and stepped forward, shoulders level, hands steady, like the soldier he was. He said, "It's nice to meet you," grateful for meaningless social conventions for giving him something to _say_ as he raised his eyes to the man's face.

He could see the pain there. Layers of it, and he could only guess at the causes. The cancer. His son becoming a kidnapper. His unacknowledged, unknown son coming to call. Plus who knew how many other griefs.

The doctor in him immediately responded to the pain and his embarrassment faded away. He had stood next to countless bedsides and knew in his bones how to talk to wounded people. "How are you feeling?" And this time, it wasn't merely a matter of social-nothings, but an honest question.

A smile flickered across the man's face as he nodded at the chart by his bed. "You tell me."

A matching flicker on John's as he reached for the chart. "You're doing remarkably well, all things considered," he said after a moment. "Blood pressure and temperature well within normal margins, though your blood work is a little dicey. I'd imagine you know that already, though, Mr. Littleston."

"That's what they tell me," he said as he waved him toward the chair by the bed. "And please, call me Ian. I wish I could say this was a pleasure, but…" Ian pushed the laptop aside. "I apologize for my son's foolish actions."

John blinked. "I don't know that 'foolish' is the word I would choose," he said carefully, "Especially since he threatened my sister."

A beep from his phone. He glanced at the text:

_-Remember, you can't hit a dying man. SH_."

Ian was nodding. "It was unforgiveable. It sounds like an excuse to say his mother spoiled him, because that sounds like he merely threw a tantrum rather than …." He paused, as if the words tangled in his throat. Again, John saw pain in his eyes as he looked up. "I don't imagine your mother spoiled you?"

John heard the cavernous weight of curiosity behind that question. "It depends on who you ask, sir. My sister would tell you she spoiled me terribly."

A glimmer of humor. "Ha! And what do you think?"

Sensing the man wanted an honest answer, John said, "I think that I was never given anything for free except opportunities—which were abundant. I have no complaints."

"I'm sure you have questions, though."

A sharp exhale and John nodded. "That, I do, yes. Until yesterday, I had no idea you ever, er, knew my mother."

"And it was a shock."

John nodded, trying to suppress a string of coughs he could feel building at the bottom of his lungs. "Yesterday was quite a full day, yes."

Ian gave him a sharp look. "You're sick?"

A small, embarrassed shrug of a nod. "Nothing serious—or contagious. Just getting over a, er, cold."

Ian waved to his nurse. "Have some tea sent up, would you?"

He had gotten two more text alerts. John glanced at them while Ian was talking to the nurse.

_-Anybody not an idiot would want you in his family, John. SH_

_-Ian Littleston is not an idiot. SH_."

He smiled to himself as Ian said "It's not that I didn't want you to know, John. Just …." Ian's voice was softer now, smaller and hurt.

John tried to keep his own tone even, but he was feeling small and hurt, too. "Not while you were alive?"

Ian's eyes were dark. "I promised to stay away, John, that doesn't mean I wasn't interested." He pointed to the framed photos next to his bed. "See that one? That's my son Geoffrey. He was killed just over a year ago. Turn it over. Pull off the back."

John stood up and picked up the picture, looking at a friendly face under familiar looking sandy hair, and then did as he was told. Unlike a regular frame, the back came straight off, showing quite a different photo.

It was him, wearing a cap and gown, shaking hands with … He stared at Ian. "How did you…?" he asked, stunned.

"The day you graduated medical school." Ian said with a twinkle in his eye. "Your mother and I did not stay in touch, but that doesn't mean I didn't keep an eye on you from a distance. Luckily, at a graduation, you can talk to just about any one, and nobody notices extra cameras."

John was still staring at the photo. It was a candid shot of him looking impossibly young and happy in his cap and gown, shaking Ian's hand, the two of them the same height and with remarkably similar smiles. Harry was standing staring off into the distance while his mother stood in the background between him and Ian, watching with a look of pride and a hint of tears.

"I remember this, I think," John said. "You said you were from the scholarship committee?"

Ian looked smug. "I did. I had to say something, after all, and it was true in its way."

"I can't believe you kept that." John was smiling now. "So you knew I was a doctor, then?"

"And that you joined the army after your mother died, yes. I also knew when you came home. I even read your blog." He gave John a fond look. "I'm really quite proud of you, John, even though I don't deserve any of the credit. It's not like you've needed my help."

John looked at him, blinking, "It just … would have been nice to know you."

There was a bustle of noise from the doorway and then the nurse was back, handing him a cup of tea which he sipped gratefully, surprised to find it strengthened with whiskey as well as honey and lemon.

Ian took the cup she handed him and then waited until she stepped away before saying, "Don't think I haven't thought that a thousand times, John, but I promised your parents that I would stay away, and I don't break my word." He shifted on his pillows. "I won't say I wasn't tempted when you came home hurt from Afghanistan. It would have been a logical time since both your parents were gone. The secret wasn't so important then. But before I could do anything, you'd found Sherlock and didn't need me."

He smiled at John. "In fact, keep that in mind about the Holmes family—they are very good at taking care of their own. It eases my mind to know that they care about you."

John had to agree with that. Uncomfortable though it was, there were times when it was a comfort being under the Holmes family wing.

Ian grinned suddenly. "But they're not the only ones. After Sherlock "died" a few years ago? Well, you can believe I followed that story _very_ closely and kept close tabs on you. I even covered your rent—rather like old times, keeping a roof over your head."

John looked surprised. He had been in such a fog after Sherlock's jump, he had completely lost track of things for a while. "I thought that was Mycroft."

"No, it was me. Anonymously, of course." Ian laughed, unable to resist the joke. He all but slapped his thigh with the joy of it. "And don't think I didn't love the challenge of keeping it from Mycroft, either! That man is tenacious. He knew about the money, of course, because he was watching you even more carefully than I was, but he never figured out where it came from! Though I guess that secret's out now, too."

John couldn't help chuckling. "He and his brother are very good at putting two and two together."

Beep.

_-Did he tell you about the rent yet? SH_."

"And luckily for you, good at taking care of criminals, too." Ian sobered abruptly. "Like Andy."

John nodded. "Kidnapping is a serious offence."

"Which brings me to my current problem." Ian leaned back tiredly. "He's gotten away with too much his entire life and this time was caught red-handed. I'm not going to do anything to try to get him off. He doesn't deserve it. I can ignore laziness and even greed, but cannot sanction kidnapping and murder, even if you are a threat to him."

"Me? If he hadn't kidnapped Sherlock and Harry, I would never have even known who he was. I'm no threat to your son."

"You are to his inheritance," Ian told him. "Because illegitimate or not, you are also my son. My eldest son, in fact. Your existence threatens his entire way of life."

"Because in the unlikely event you were to leave me everything, he'd have to get a job?" John laughed.

"Exactly."

John realized with horror that Ian was totally serious.

"But … I was kidding."

"I know you were, but really, John. What else am I supposed to do? Geoffrey was my responsible son, the one who could have run the business and looked after his brother, but Andy? Even before yesterday, he didn't deserve anything more than his trust fund which, believe me, is more than generous." He gave John a straight look. "I'm a dying man, John. Who else am I going to leave my estate to?"

John was standing, horrified. "You can't mean me!"

"Please, John, sit down."

Ian's voice was weaker, suddenly, as were John's knees, so he sat down, rather abruptly. "You can't possibly mean that. You can't possibly mean that you want me to try to run your business."

"Not the business, no. I'm well aware that's not one of your strengths, plentiful though they are. But my personal estate? Why not? Andy will be generously cared for—especially considering recent events—and who else do I have?"

Beep.

_-Think of the jumpers you could buy. SH_."

John tried to force down a laugh and ended up bent over in a full-blown fit of coughs, gasping for air all while almost appreciating the break in the conversation. "Well, some will consider that you don't 'have' me, either," he managed when he'd caught his breath. "A son you never acknowledged inheriting your fortune over the son you raised? Mr. Littleston, the press will eat me alive. Between your name and Sherlock's notoriety, the whole country will be watching, waiting for me to make a mistake."

"And you want to run from that fight?" Ian's voice was disbelieving.

"I want to do what's right!" John tried to keep the anger from his voice. "I'm not saying Andy deserves your money. Frankly, I'd be delighted if he spends the rest of his life in jail. But that doesn't mean I deserve it, either."

Ian shook his head, apparently unsatisfied with the way this was going. "You don't think you have any claim? I would have acknowledged you in a heartbeat, John, if I could have. I left a note to that effect with your mother."

John nodded. "We found that this morning. But it doesn't change the fact that this is a bad idea. I don't care about money, Ian, and I've been known to get carried away at cards, which is why I don't play any more. If you saddle me with a fortune, it won't matter how careful I am, it's _not_going to go well. There are some fights I can't win. As a soldier, I know how to pick the ones I fight."

Beep.

_-Mycroft can censor the press if he has to. SH_."

There was silence for a long moment, while the machines beeped quietly in their corner. Then Ian gestured to the nurse. "Send Mr. Holmes up."

#

* * *

Note: I know nothing about medicine so anything John may have said about Ian's health? I learned everything I know from Grey's Anatomy. Please don't blame me.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock tried not to pace around the room.

Patience was never his strong suit, and knowing John and Ian Littleston were upstairs, possibly planning John's entire future—without him—made it impossible to sit still.

No, he couldn't sit, but he managed to restrain his worst impulses and instead stood by the window, looking out on the street. Wondering what was being said.

Wondering if Littleston would tell John that he had consulted Sherlock when Geoffrey died.

He was offered tea while he waited, but shook his head. He hoped he was not going to be abandoned here, alone, for that long. He resisted the temptation to bombard John with texts asking how it was going. Or, he tried. A little.

The door opened and the butler ushered him up the stairs and into Littleston's room.

John was sitting quietly, stubbornly, in a chair while Littleston was looking equally stubborn in his bed. "Mr. Holmes," he said, "I thought you might like to actually join both sides of the conversation. I hope you weren't bored?"

Sherlock met his eyes with a smile. "Just trying to amuse myself. How did I do, John?"

"Spot on as usual, Sherlock," John told him drily. "I'll have to examine my jacket for bugs later."

Sherlock waved a hand. "Oh, any of those would be from Mycroft." He turned to the man in the bed. "Mr. Littleston, it is a pleasure to see you again, though the circumstances are far from ideal."

"No, Mr. Holmes, they are not." A second chair had appeared and Sherlock was invited to sit. "I must apologize for my son. His actions yesterday were unpardonable."

Sherlock met his gaze and nodded. "For Harry Watson's sake, certainly. As luck would have it, though, your son is a particularly inept kidnapper."

"Andrew is particularly inept at just about everything, which I was just saying to John."

Sherlock glanced at his friend, noting the sullen slant of his shoulders. "And you think he would be bad for business."

Ian snorted. "I think having Andy within a hundred miles of my business would be bad for my business. I decided that long ago. When Geoffrey died. I removed my personal assets from LSE and am making it public under its current management, in whom I have a great deal of trust. I told Andy months ago, to be sure he was under no illusions."

John still wasn't speaking. Sherlock said, "But he still had hopes for your personal fortune."

"Yes, but he's not getting it. I spoke with my lawyer this morning."

John's head came up, disbelief on his face.

"Due to Andy's actions this week, I am taking him out of the will—or to all intents and purposes, I am. He has a very generous trust fund that I set up for him years ago. It keeps all the principle out of his hands and pays his expenses—to a point. Had these … circumstances … not arisen, on my death he would have received a large sum of money, yes, but without it, he can still live a comfortable life. Assuming he stays out of prison."

He looked at John. "What I _want_ to do with the rest is give it to you."

John shook his head and said, "And I've told you, I don't want it. I do not want to be a wealthy man, Ian. I never have."

Ian sighed. "I know. You wanted to be a good man, and you are. Which is why you _deserve_ this."

Sherlock saw the signs. John's temper was rising, rapidly. "There must be some compromise you could make," he offered.

John rounded on him. "This, coming from you? I didn't think the word was in your vocabulary."

But Ian was interested. "What kind of compromise?"

"I'm sure you could think of something. Say, a charity for wounded veterans? Or one that Geoffrey cared about?" Sherlock lifted an elegant eyebrow. "With Andy on trial for kidnapping, people won't be surprised if you cut him from your will—they of course won't know you'd done it already. They'll think it's a natural effect of his actions. People know that your other son is dead, so leaving your money to charity won't seem that unlikely."

John's face had relaxed now, looking hopeful, but Ian's expression was stormy. "And how does John benefit from this?"

"Other than not burdening him with financial responsibilities he does not want?" Sherlock asked pointedly. "I would think he would accept some kind of annuity so he doesn't have to worry about the rent, wouldn't you, John?"

John was staring at him. "You seem to have thought this through, Sherlock. It sounds like your mind is all made up about the way I should live _my_life."

Uh-oh. "I'm just trying to help, John."

"Yes, you're so very bloody helpful lately."

There was a bitter edge to John's words that Sherlock didn't know how to respond to. Sentiment was always so messy. He could understand why John was upset, but wasn't he offering a reasonable way out of this mess? One that would keep John happy? Not to mention help all those compatriots of his from the military?

Ian was watching the two of them from his bed, looking suddenly weary. "A charity could be an excellent solution," he said mildly.

John turned back to him, spine stiff. "The press will tear your character to shreds."

"But I'll be dead, so they can say what they like about me."

John took a small step toward the bed. "I'd rather they say what you deserve, and in my experience, they frequently fail to do."

Sherlock tried not to flinch. It had been John who had suffered the most at the hands of the press during the Reichenbach years. It had been he who had worried about Sherlock's reputation, and John who had been castigated for believing in him when the whole world believed Sherlock had been a fraud.

If Ian when through with his plan now, and forced this inheritance on John, the whole thing would happen again. The press would point fingers to attack Ian's decision and blame John for it.

Ian coughed, a hint of similar thoughts on his own face. "According to my doctors, we have at least a little time to figure this out, John. We don't have to decide this right now." He looked at Sherlock. "What matters right now is what happens to Andy. Your brother can't suppress that story forever."

"I doubt that he wants to," Sherlock said with a smile. A flick of the eyes at John. "Having Andy's … indiscretion … plastered on the front pages would only make it easier for you to cut him off."

Ian shrugged. "I'm not going to be leaving this bed, so it's not like I'll be facing gossips."

John was watching Ian with that doctor look of his, all traces of personal distress gone as his profession took hold. "As you say, this doesn't have to be decided right now. You're tired. We should go."

A small smile. "You're looking tired yourself, John. That minor cold of yours has quite a cough."

"It's still on the mend."

The two men shared matching, small, crooked smiles and then Sherlock and John excused themselves. They were just at the door when Ian called Sherlock back.

#


	5. Chapter 5

"Mr. Holmes, could you pass a message on to your brother for me?"

Sherlock glanced back and said to John, "Go wait downstairs. This should only be a minute." John looked like he wanted to object, but left with a farewell nod to Ian. Sherlock went back to the bed.

"Does he know I asked you to investigate Andy when Geoffrey died?" Ian asked bluntly.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, but he's going to have to."

Ian nodded. "I agree."

"The real question is how long it's going to take him to figure out that I knew you were his father."

Ian looked surprised. "You think he will?"

"He knows me very well, Mr. Littleston. Once he knows we've met, he'll wonder whether I noticed anything, and then he'll wonder why I didn't say anything."

Ian looked unconvinced. "I know your observational skills are extraordinary, Mr. Holmes, but why would you possibly have connected me with John?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "You're forgetting, Mr. Littleston. I _did_ connect you with John, before you had been in my sitting room for more than five minutes." Ian blinked. "It's true that I probably would not have made the connection if you hadn't come to me—I had no reason to suspect Harold Watson was not John's father. But once you had introduced yourself, I did. And John will wonder if I did."

"What will you tell him?" Very quiet.

"I don't know," Sherlock told him, equally quiet. "I'm afraid he won't forgive me keeping this secret."

"He's forgiven you the others, though, hasn't he? He forgave you for Reichenbach."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, but this is different."

"Yes, it is." He fingered a fold in his sheet for a moment, then asked, "Did you ever find proof that Andy…?"

"That Andy killed his brother?" Sherlock looked at him, weighing the man's curiosity and the need to know against the hesitation in the fingers, the strain at the temple. "Let's just say I could make Andy very worried."

He started for the door and then turned back. "And I will do, if that will keep him from coming after John, even in the press."

Ian's face was white against the pillows. "Good, then. Make sure my son knows?"

Sherlock gave a brief nod and then swept through the door as the nurse moved toward Ian's bed.

It was only as he was heading down the hallway that it occurred to him to wonder which son Ian was talking about.

#

John waited at the bottom of the stairs. The butler had tried to show him into the sitting room to wait, but John refused. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to get out of this house as quickly as possible. He just hoped Sherlock's conversation wouldn't take long.

He couldn't believe how tired he was. To say things had been stressful the last few days was the understatement of the century, and it didn't look like things were going to calm down any time soon.

He knew what he'd seen on Ian's chart. Yes, the man was doing quite well, considering. Considering he was fighting an unbeatable cancer that had spread to several major organs. He might have a few days, yes, but John would be surprised if he lasted more than a week.

He started to lean against the wall, thinking about that, but caught himself. He was afraid even to touch the walls; the wallpaper looked expensive even to him. It seemed unfair to have this bombshell dropped (_Luke, I am your father!_) just in time for the man to die, leaving him with hundreds of questions.

Not to mention huge piles of money.

What he wanted more than anything else right this minute was a nice, simple murder investigation so he could tag along with Sherlock and not have to _think_ about anything.

Where was Sherlock, anyway? And what could Ian be saying to him?

Something about Andy, no doubt. An apology for his getting kidnapped? An appeal to Mycroft to get him off? Though, by the rest of the conversation, John rather doubted that. Ian didn't sound very fond of his son at all, and wasn't going to lift a finger to protect him.

Which was fine with John. Andy had threatened Harry and planned to kill Sherlock—or, John, really—and there was no way John was ready to forgive that. He was just grateful Sherlock had prevented it.

Damn it, where was the man? John's head was starting to spin again, from too many thoughts, this time, not a fever.

There he came now, sweeping down the stairs in that coat of his, looking every inch like he belonged here. John spared a moment to wonder what kind of house Sherlock had grown up in, but then Sherlock was on his way through the door, phone in his hand, John trailing behind like always.

They climbed into Mycroft's car and John settled thankfully back into the leather seat and closed his eyes. He could feel Sherlock's attention, though, like waves of heat and started counting to himself. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six…

"So, how are you?"

"About as you'd expect," John said. He opened his eyes and glanced at the driver, not wanting to say anything that he didn't want overheard in Mycroft's car.

Sherlock's eyes crinkled in response and he said nothing more until the car dropped them at Angelo's. At John's surprised look, he said, "You look hungry."

John felt his eyebrows rising. "You're being very thoughtful, this week."

"Your good influence must finally be working," Sherlock told him with a smile. "But, seriously, it's been hours since you ate anything and I've worked too hard to get you well to ruin it now."

#

John felt much better the next morning. He'd gone straight to bed after they'd gotten back from dinner, and slept twelve straight hours with nary a nightmare. It was like a miracle. The phlegm in his chest had finally broken up and his fever felt like it was gone for good. He almost felt like singing in the shower, except for the lingering cough (and the knowledge that Sherlock would tease him unmercifully).

He found Sherlock reading the papers, and tried to ignore the headlines ("Billionaire's Son Goes to Jail") on his way into the kitchen for tea and toast.

"Feeling better?"

John nodded, mouth full of toast and jam. "Much. I actually slept last night, and I'm not even going to ask you which bottle of cough syrup was next to my bed."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "What are your plans for today?"

"This week, I'm just taking things as they come, Sherlock. Why? What are you doing today?"

"I thought I'd stop by jail, actually. There's something I'd like to say to your brother."

John felt his eyes widen. "Can you even do that? The man did just kidnap you."

"I cleared it with Mycroft. There's something I need to say to him. Want to come?"

"I … see," said John, but it was a lie. He didn't see at all. What could Sherlock have to say to Andy? It couldn't be as simple as a stay-away-from-my-friend kind of threat. (He certainly wouldn't bring John along to witness it, if it were.) He was too tired to think it through, though, so finally he just asked, "More threats?"

"More by way of friendly advice," Sherlock said. John glanced over and saw him watching him, but just nodded. "Sounds better than answering the calls Harry's nagging me with. When do we leave?"

#


	6. Chapter 6

"How many cars does your brother have, anyway?" John asked him as they walked through the gates at the prison.

"It's not like he needs it," Sherlock said, "And it's cheaper than a taxi."

"But you hate owing Mycroft favors."

A sidelong glance. Well, that was true, but all he said was, "What makes you think I'm not doing him one right now?"

John pursed his lips, but said nothing.

"And John? Let me do the talking."

A snort. "Whenever don't you, Sherlock?"

After what seemed to be hours of security check points, they found themselves in a private meeting room with Andy Littleston.

The arrogant kidnapper of two days ago was gone. Today, in his prison jumpsuit, the man looked smaller. Apparently reality was making itself known. He very purposely avoided looking at John, but instead blurted out, "You're Sherlock _Holmes_."

"Yes, I believe I introduced myself the other night."

Andy shook his head. "I didn't know."

"Know what?"

"Just things I heard, since … I didn't realize who you _were_."

Sherlock sniffed. "Obviously. And have you perhaps heard rumors about my partner since you've been here? How much I value him?" Andy's eyes widened as glanced over at John, rigid in his chair. "I don't believe you two have been properly introduced. John, this is Andy Littleston. Andy, this is _Doctor_ John Watson, retired RAMC Captain, military veteran from the war in Afghanistan. Also, your brother."

"_Half_-brother," John said drily, giving Sherlock a quizzical look at elaborate introduction.

Sherlock wanted Andy to know just how badly he had underestimated John. "Indeed. Half-brother. Also my dear friend and colleague, and I believe I mentioned war veteran? I believe you know his sister."

Andy had slumped lower in his chair, but his eyes were glued on John. "I didn't know," he whined. "I just thought…"

"Thought you could intimidate him into giving you whatever you wanted? Thought you could kill him without anyone being the wiser?"

"No, I …" Andy looked around wildly. "I want my lawyer. I'm not saying anything more to you without my lawyer!"

Sherlock smiled a long, slow smile. "No, I'm sorry, that's not possible. This visit isn't really happening, you see. It's entirely off the record. Just a chance for the three of us to clear the air before things get too far out of hand."

He saw John give him a sideways look. By his posture, Sherlock could tell John was anything but relaxed, but he wasn't giving anything away while Sherlock had his say.

"I don't understand," Andy mumbled, slumped back in his chair again as if trying to be as unthreatening as possible. "I know my rights."

"This isn't about your rights, Andy … Do you mind if I call you Andy? This is just a friendly chat about right and wrong." Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Now, leaving aside your kidnapping me—a kidnapping, I might add that was so incompetent as to be quite entertaining—let's talk about your reprehensible actions in kidnapping John's sister. That was really very ungentlemanly of you. Don't you remember how gentlemen are supposed to behave?"

Andy just stared at the table (almost eye level, he had slid so far down in his chair), and Sherlock shook his head. "Oh, but of course I forgot. You didn't pay much attention at school, did you? You were too busy being a bully, and cringing at the feet of anyone stronger than you."

He turned his face toward John, but did not stop watching Andy's eyes. "You know, John, if Andy here had had the smallest sense of self-preservation, he would have tried to investigate you _before_ deciding that killing you would be his best route to your father's fortune. If he had had an inkling what kind of man you are, he would have toadied up to you instead."

John nodded, face neutral, voice calm as he said, "Though, after kidnapping you and Harry, asking for my help probably wouldn't have gone over so well."

Sherlock nodded back, eyes wide with feigned surprise. "You're right. He probably shouldn't have done that. He should have tried talking to you_first_. That would have been so much smarter, but then Andy has never been smart enough to think before he acts."

"Look, I'm sorry, all right?" Andy burst out. "I was stupid, okay? But it's not like anybody got hurt, right?"

"Through no fault of your own," said Sherlock.

"Exactly," agreed Andy, then realized what he'd said. "No, wait…."

Now it was John's turn. "No, you wait. I don't care that you threatened me, but you kidnapped my _sister_ and my best friend. What kind of brother would I be if I let you get away with that?"

"You'd be the kind of brother who would sacrifice a sibling for your own gain. Now, who do we know that would do that?" Feigning wide-eyed wonder, Sherlock looked at Andy, watching the shock spreading across his face.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," and now Sherlock's voice was like ice, no hint of mockery, "That John would never consider hurting a sibling … but you would, wouldn't you, Andy?"

"I, I never…"

"Oh, but you did. Your brother Geoffrey's hunting accident fourteen months ago. Except, it was no accident, was it?" Sherlock watched the man's pupils dilate as his eyes shifted about the room. He didn't say anything, though, so Sherlock continued. "The man you hired to tamper with his gun was rather put out with you, Andy, when you didn't pay him the full amount you promised him. That was really very careless of you—forgetting he could provide evidence against you, and was therefore a person you really shouldn't upset."

Andy was doing his best fish imitation, jaw moving, but no sounds coming out of his mouth. To his left, Sherlock could feel John tensing as well, but his poker face was holding solid. "But that's the way you operate, isn't it? You think only of yourself and don't bother to even acknowledge that there could be other people who might affect you. You decided your brother was in your way, and so you killed him."

Andy was shaking his head, but Sherlock continued inexorably, "I have the proof, Andy. Your father suspected you and asked me to investigate. It was his choice not to hand the evidence over to the police, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. And it certainly doesn't mean that I can't hand it over right now."

Sherlock shot a look at John, sitting even more rigid in his chair, staring at Andy with hard eyes. Andy had the look of a rabbit who had just felt a hawk's shadow sweep overhead.

"You … can't …" Andy said weakly.

"Oh, but I can. And if I were to present this evidence to them now, your trial for _this_ case could go very badly for you. The jury will have proof that you killed Geoffrey with cold premeditation. It will be easy to convince them that you planned to kill John, Harry, and me." Sherlock leaned forward again. "You'll never see daylight again."

"But, I…" Andy swallowed, hard. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm telling you because I want to make one thing very, very clear to you." Sherlock stared at the man, putting everything he had into the power of his own gaze. "If you ever threaten John Watson or _anyone_ ever again, I will ruin you. You've heard about me, hmm? About how I faked my own suicide and then went out and brought down a master criminal's entire crime ring single-handedly? I have a certain reputation for ruthlessness, I believe?"

Andy nodded, eyes wide and red, hands shaking in his lap.

"Than you might consider what will happen to you if you ever cross my path again." Sherlock rose to his feet. "I don't know what kind of sentence a jury might give for kidnapping and attempted murder, Andy, but you might want to think long and hard about how much safer you might be_inside_ prison, rather than out on the streets where I can find you."

John sat where he was a moment longer, staring at his half-brother. Finally Andy tore his eyes away from Sherlock and looked at John. "I didn't mean to …" he quavered. "I only wanted …"

John's eyes narrowed, and then calmly, slowly, he stood up and looked down at his half-brother as if he were a particularly nasty bug beneath his shoe. "We're done here," he said, and walked away.

Sherlock gave one last, satisfied look at Andy, reduced to a puddle of fear in his chair. "Don't forget," he said, and he turned to follow John.

#

John didn't say a word until they had left the prison.

They were halfway to the car when he stopped and turned to Sherlock. "Was that a bluff? Or were you telling the truth?"

Sherlock stopped, a look of surprise flitting over his face. "Would I lie?"

"Oh, I know you would," said John. "Which is why I'm asking you—was that the truth? Did Ian Littleston actually hire you to look into Geoffrey's death?"

"He asked me to look into it, though it was never technically official." Sherlock's voice had taken on that slight wheedling tone he used when trying to talk John into things, but John was having none of it.

"And you have proof that that idiot in there killed him?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't bring it to the police? Why?" John was breathing heavily now and could feel his heart beating faster to keep up.

"Because my client asked me not to, John." Sherlock's voice was very quiet.

"Your _unofficial_ client." John clipped out the words, sharp on his tongue. "And where was I during all this?"

"At work at the surgery, if I remember correctly."

"And you didn't tell me?"

Sherlock's face was calm, which just made John want to hit him. "I don't tell you about every minor case I look at, John, any more than you tell me about every cold or ear infection you treat at the clinic."

For some reason, his answer just made John angrier. He didn't know what it was, but there was something Sherlock wasn't telling him. "Minor case? The murder of a billionaire's son? That wasn't worth a mention over dinner? Just in passing?"

Sherlock's mouth started to open, but John cut him off. "Don't even say a _word_ about confidentiality, Sherlock. I thought we were partners!"

"We are, John."

"Then why wouldn't you tell me? If it was so minor?"

Sherlock's face was still calm, but his eyes were dark, but he didn't say anything. Which, being Sherlock, was the final straw for John's temper. It always meant trouble when Sherlock stopped talking.

John just stared at him, furious now. "You've gotten awfully protective lately, Sherlock, but let me remind you that that is _not_ the way you treat a partner!" He turned on his heel and started down the sidewalk.

"John, the car!"

"I'm walking. I need some air!" John called back, trying hard not to shout, not to draw so deep a breath that he would begin coughing again. Not so deep that he would realize how very much it hurt to breathe.

#


	7. Chapter 7

John marched down the pavement, refusing to look back to see if Sherlock was following, or if he'd driven away in Mycroft's car. His mind was racing as fast as his pulse and he needed a chance to think.

The last few days had been hellish. The fever, the worry, the sense of helplessness. Being helpless was his worst nightmare. But on the other hand, he had felt unusually cared for by Sherlock, as well as Mycroft and Greg. It had felt almost like being part of a family again, and that had helped balance the helplessness.

He knew how sick he'd been, and how much he had needed their help. Because that's what friends do, isn't it? Offer help when you need it.

He had finally thought Sherlock _got_ it.

Except Sherlock had clearly crossed the line from "help John because he needs it" to "protect John so thoroughly he has no control over any part of his life." The problem was, John couldn't figure out when that line had been crossed. Had it been when Moriarty strapped him into Semtex? When Sherlock jumped off a roof to save him?

Since his return, they had worked well together, closer to equals in partnership than they had been before. This was in part, John thought, because they had had to admit how much they cared about each other. They cared equally, so they were equals.

So when had Sherlock started _protecting_ John?

He didn't mean from a weapon. They watched each other's backs all the time. That's what partners do. And John readily admitted he'd needed Sherlock's help while he was delirious with fever this week. Was it just that I-don't-have-friends Sherlock Holmes didn't know where the line between helping and over-protecting _was_?

John was striding down the pavement now, mind and legs working in sync. He had always done his best thinking while in motion, and the rhythmic, forward motion of his legs helped power his brain forward as well.

He couldn't get this two facts out of his head.

1. Ian Littleston had asked Sherlock to look into his son's death.

2. And Sherlock had confirmed that Andy had been the killer, and then he had _done nothing about it_.

John was the first to admit that he wasn't as brilliant as Sherlock, but he had a perfectly good brain, thank you very much, and this did not add up. Sherlock had been willing to look the other way on a crime from time to time, when it was justified in the steal-bread-because-starving kind of way, but this? It didn't even seem an interesting enough case for Sherlock. The size of the inheritance wouldn't interest him, nor the notoriety of the client. Geoffrey had been killed out of simple greed. Nothing that should have piqued Sherlock's interest.

He stopped in his tracks, mind veering wildly as he examined the sudden thought, almost knocking him dizzily off his feet.

He looked around, catching his bearings, and then purposefully headed off, turning right at the next corner and marching on, a soldier with a mission.

#

Sherlock watched John walk away, head up, shoulders level, every inch proclaiming that he was a soldier.

It was so easy to forget that. He was so used to having John at his back, helping him, making tea, pestering him to eat. He knew he could always count on him if he was hurt or in trouble. Why did John not realize the same applied to him? Wasn't Sherlock just returning the favor?

Sherlock had known this was one secret likely to blow up in his face. He knew that. He had expected John to be upset. Sherlock _hated_ when people kept things from him. One of the reasons he'd become a detective in the first place was because it gave him a chance to nose out all those nice, juicy secrets that people tried to keep from him.

John, though, said he was upset because Sherlock was being _protective_.

There was a polite cough and he realized Mycroft's car was still sitting there, door open. He considered heading after John but decided it would probably just make him angrier, and so he got in the car. Why pay for a cab when Mycroft was being so very obliging?

Watching the buildings slide by as they drove, he thought about being protective. Wasn't that what friends did? Protect each other? Wasn't John always telling him that? So why would it make him upset?

As they drove through an intersection, he caught a glimpse of John down the road, pacing with his soldier's stride, lost in thought. John had been a soldier. Weren't they used to protecting each other?

He was used to having comrades at his back to protect him, yes. But John was also used to charging forward into danger because it was the right thing to do.

Sherlock shifted in his seat and fidgeted briefly with the window, smiling as he imagined Mycroft's "Don't play with that!"

Then the smile slid from his face. Of course. How had he been so stupid? He hated when Mycroft stepped in, playing older brother to keep him from doing something interesting (that was never as dangerous as Mycroft made out). He hated when Mycroft prevented him from making his own decisions.

Wasn't that what he'd just done with John?

With the best possible intentions, he had treated John like Mycroft treated him.

Sherlock shuddered, trying very hard NOT to think of the implications about what that said about Mycroft's feelings toward him. (Delete, delete, delete!) Instead, he focused on what he was going to need to say to John to get him to forgive him.

#


	8. Chapter 8

The butler answered the door with a quizzical look.

"Is he well enough for visitors?" asked John.

He was allowed in while the man went up to check, back in moments with a nod. John followed him back up the stairs, trying to order his thoughts. He didn't miss the nurse's warning look as he walked in, nor did he miss how much frailer Ian looked today. He nodded at the nurse. He was a doctor, he would be careful, and walked forward.

"Change your mind about the money?" asked Ian. His voice was weaker today, but still gleamed with humor.

John gave him a hard smile, eyes on his face. "You look tired today."

Ian's head moved restlessly on the pillow. "Some days are better than others. I'm glad to see you, though. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

John sat in the offered chair, hesitating. "Sherlock and I went to see Andy this morning."

Ian stilled in his bed, suddenly listening very hard.

"Sherlock told Andy he had proof that he killed Geoffrey a year ago. He meant it as a warning in case Andy should decide to do anything else to threaten me." He looked up at the still man in the bed. "What I don't understand, though, is why he didn't tell the police."

"Why do you think?" A quiet question.

John looked down at his hands. They were good hands, strong, callused from a lifetime of hard work and firearms, but gentle enough to ease away a patient's nightmare or give a child a shot. They were the hands of a man of action, and he was trying so hard to understand. Finally he said, "I think that Sherlock was protecting me. Then, I mean. Not just today."

He looked up and found Ian's eyes watching him, full of compassion. He drew a deep breath, sure now that he was right. "He knew, didn't he? He knew about you, but he didn't tell me."

Ian nodded. "I'm sorry. I didn't plan it. He deduced it from the fact that I came to him. He knew that I wouldn't Geoffrey's murder going public, and so I must have come to him for another reason. He said it must be because I wanted him to be alert for when I died—because naturally, he spotted the cancer, too. He said the only reason for me to be there would be to protect _you_." He chuckled, but his eyes were sad. "I still don't know how he did it. We don't look _that_ much alike, you and I."

"I never know, either," said John. "I just try to accept it. Sherlock sees things the rest of us don't. I'm used to that. I'm just tired of him keeping things from me."

"That was my fault," Ian told him. "I had made a promise. I couldn't warn _you_, so I let Sherlock know that there might be danger heading your way when I was dead. I gave him time to find evidence he could use against Andy as leverage if it became necessary. I knew he would do whatever he needed to keep you safe, when I couldn't."

His voice croaked, and John stood up and poured him some water. "I didn't expect that Andy would find out about you while I was still alive. And I never thought he would come after your sister. I _thought_ that Andy would learn when you did—from my will. At that point, having your best friend forewarned would just be a precaution."

His hand was gripping John's now. "It was never because I didn't trust you, John, but I keep my word. I promised your parents I would keep this—us—a secret. I can't apologize for that, or for doing what I could to help you. I can only say that I wish you'd learned it under better circumstances."

John let him pull him down, so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. "It wasn't your fault," he said automatically, but his voice lacked conviction.

"I don't break secrets, John, and I suspect neither do you. We're both men of honor," Ian said in a stronger voice. "I'm proud of that. Geoffrey was, too, you know. You would have liked him."

"I'm sure I would have."

They sat quietly, John's hand clutched in Ian's wizened one for several minutes. Then Ian said, "I'm glad you found out, John. Glad you found out while I can still tell you that you've made me proud. I can't take any credit, but you're a man any father would be happy to claim as a son."

"I'm glad we had a chance to meet, too," John said quietly.

Ian chuckled. "Well, we did meet that other time."

"Right, my graduation." He smiled as he glanced at the nightstand, and then blinked when he saw the photo now proudly displayed in its own frame.

"I meant when I came to see Sherlock," Ian told him, tactfully ignoring his surprise. "We were just finishing up our meeting when you came home with groceries. We only spoke for a few minutes, but I remember every one of them."

John was wracking his brain. About a year ago? Groceries? Then he nodded. "I remember. You said you read my blog, and Sherlock was unusually complimentary."

"I think he was trying to make you look good in front of your father." Ian patted his hand. "I know he's not perfect—he's a Holmes, after all—but he's a good friend to you. Almost as good as you deserve."

"Ah, now, see? You're making me blush again," John said with a small laugh of his own.

"I've got a lifetime of compliments to fit in to the next few days, John. I don't have time to waste."

John's eyes moistened and he nodded. "Our timing is terrible."

"Could have been worse," Ian said. He shifted on his pillows then, and John helped him get comfortable before moving back to his chair.

"Tell me about your mother," asked Ian, and so they chatted for a time, with John telling stories about his mum, and Ian talking about Geoffrey. The nurse brought tea, and gave Ian a measuring glance, checking his color, then gave John a nod.

He was keeping a careful eye on Ian as well, though, and the moment Ian began to look fatigued, he stood and made his excuses. "We still need to talk about the money," Ian said.

"I'll be back tomorrow. That'll be soon enough," John told him.

A few minutes later he was out on the sidewalk, breathing easier than he had in days. He'd forgotten what it was like to talk to a father.

#


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was on the couch when he heard John's steps coming up the stairs. There was a slight hesitation before he opened the door, as if he were catching his breath, then he was in the room, bag of Chinese food in his hand.

"I brought dinner," he said, heading for the kitchen. "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat," said Sherlock.

John just nodded and Sherlock heard him collecting plates from the cabinet, dishing out the meal, and then he carried the plates into the sitting room. He sat down in his chair with a sigh and stretched out his leg. He looked tired, but not like he'd spent the whole time walking, Sherlock thought, relieved. He still hadn't regained his strength from his illness. He refrained from commenting, though, but took a conciliatory bite of spicy chicken.

They ate in silence for a time. (Sherlock had more of an appetite than he'd expected.)

"I saw Harry," John said after a while. That explained how tired he looked.

"How is she?" asked Sherlock politely.

"Better than you'd expect, considering her life's been turned upside down this week, too. And she IS my sister." John reached up to rub the back of his neck, then said calmly, "I'm a grown man, Sherlock. You can't always protect me."

Sherlock had no trouble following that segue. He put down his chopsticks, meal forgotten. "I know. That doesn't mean I don't want to."

He braced himself, expecting a blast of anger from John, but instead saw a surprising look of compassion on his face. "How do you think I feel all the time?"

"What? You do?"

"Of course. You put yourself into danger more than any person I know—which includes my entire army division, by the way. You don't think I wouldn't like to wrap you up in cotton wool and keep you safe? To not tell you when there are problems?" He snorted into his kung pao chicken. "You really are an idiot."

"I don't understand." Sherlock hated not understanding.

"Because that's not what adults do, Sherlock. We help each other, we support each other, but ultimately, adults have to make their own decisions. We can't shield each other from life."

"But you were so angry with me after, when …"

"When you jumped off a roof without telling me it was all a fake?" John held up his hand. "Yes, I know your message said it was a trick, we've been through that, Sherlock, and that's not the point. The point is that, when I found out you were still alive and I had all the facts, I forgave you. You had no choice and made the best decision you could at the time."

'So then why…?"

"Because you _didn't tell me_!" John visibly took a deep breath and continued in a calmer tone. "I'm never going to deny there are secrets you need to keep, Sherlock, and I'm not going to argue with you about the decisions you have to make."

Sherlock sniffed and John grinned at him. "I didn't say I'd agree with them, but everybody has to make hard decisions."

John's plate was in his lap and he rubbed his head wearily while Sherlock put every ounce of his will power into keeping his mouth closed and trying to understand while John found the words he needed. "I'm saying that what I can't accept, what I won't put up with, is being kept in the dark for no good reason. And especially not when we're talking about my _life_. I'm not a child that needs to be shielded from the big bad world, Sherlock. I'm an adult who, yes, has a dangerous life and needs back-up, but I can still take care of myself."

"I am well aware of that, John," Sherlock snapped. "You were a soldier, after all."

John was watching him now, eyes hooded, dark with some emotion Sherlock couldn't identify. "You know, it wasn't just losing you that almost killed me, back … when …"

"When I jumped."

A nod. "It was when you came back and I found out it had all been a trick, that you had planned it … Oh, I've never been happier to have been tricked, and I know all the reasons, and it's not like you had the time to tell me. I know all that. But emotions aren't logical. It _hurt_, Sherlock. It hurt being kept in the dark while you were making life and death decisions about both our lives without telling me."

"I had no choice." Sherlock tried to keep his voice even. They had gone over this, hadn't they?"

"I know. And you made the best decision you could at the time. But, Sherlock … you can't keep going over my head to protect me. You've known that my father wasn't my father and that my half-brother was a murderous idiot likely to come after me for over a year, and _didn't tell me_."

John's breathing was coming faster, but Sherlock could see the effort he was making to keep his temper in check. "You should have told me, Sherlock. You can wrap it up in as many excuses about confidentiality as you like, but you can't keep things from me as if I were a child."

John picked up his chopsticks and picked at his food. Sherlock's own food was totally forgotten as he stared at his friend, observing all the signs that said how difficult it was for John to have said all that. In addition, there were the traces of his illness (still not entirely gone), and all the worry and strain from the week's events.

Sherlock started to speak, but no sound emerged. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I've just never had anyone I _wanted_ to protect before."

John looked up, eyes wide.

"I don't know where the boundaries are, what to do or not to do, but I'm trying, John. I don't want to turn into _Mycroft_, after all."

John's head ducked as he giggled. "Heaven forbid. I couldn't bear two of him in my life. Especially when I'd much rather have you. You're my best friend, Sherlock. Have been for years now. You'd think you'd be getting better at this."

Sherlock's lips were stretching into a smile now. "Maybe I'm not as observant as I thought."

John laughed out loud now. "Right. Because that's your problem." He took a mouthful of chicken, tension easing from his face.

"I am sorry, you know. Even if I hadn't told Ian I'd keep his secret …."

John shook his head. "You couldn't work 'Oh, I met the father you never knew you had today, and by the way, your half-brother's likely to try to kill you" into the conversation?"

Sherlock smiled tentatively. "No, somehow the opportunity never came up."

"Try to work it in, next time," was all John said, but suddenly, Sherlock was starving.

"Now, let me tell you what happened to Harry today-and what Mycroft and Ian have been up to. You're going to laugh.

#


	10. Chapter 10

**5:29 a.m.**

John's phone rang.

He pried himself off the pillow long enough to look at the clock as he grabbed the phone. "Hello? What? I'll be right there."

He climbed out of bed and grabbed the nearest clothes, dressing hurriedly, and then hurried down the stairs.

Sherlock already had his bedroom door open. "Ian?" he asked.

John nodded. "They said to come right away."

They were out the door within fifteen minutes, and neither was surprised to see a sleek black car waiting at the curb. "If it wasn't so helpful, I'd complain about this being creepy," said John as he climbed in.

There was little traffic, and it took only about ten minutes to drive to Ian's house. Once again, the butler had the door open as they arrived. He took one look at John's face and simply stepped back. "Go right ahead, sir." Taking the stairs two at a time, John was up and striding down the hallway, Sherlock right behind him.

John managed to not quite burst through the doorway, but he couldn't help the sense of urgency, that there was no time to waste, all while desperately afraid he would be too late. He had known time would be short, but didn't want to be cheated out of what little time they had.

There were at least ten people in the room, several obviously were doctors and nurses, some looked like lawyers, and John didn't really care about the others. They all looked up as he and Sherlock came into the room unannounced, but his eyes were already looking for Ian.

To his relief, his eyes were open and a faint smile appeared as he saw John. Now on unsteady feet, John walked across the miles of carpeting to the bed. "You shouldn't scare people like that," he said.

"I thought it would be fun to see how many people would come at short notice," Ian said in a voice reedy and thin, as if supported with very little air.

John forced a smile and took the hand Ian tried to hold up. "And how'd we do?"

"Flying colors. Glad you're here." Ian's face was pale, almost transparent, but the personality shone through as strongly as ever. He summoned one of the lawyers with a glance, and the man hurried over with a clipboard. "Need you to sign."

John's brow furrowed. "What is it? You're not trying to trick me into taking your money, are you, Ian?"

"Charity," came Ian's voice, barely above a whisper. "For you and Geoffrey."

The lawyer nodded. "Yes. The bulk of Mr. Littleston's estate will go toward establishing two charities: one for wounded veterans in your name, one for the environment and wildlife preservation in Geoffrey's name." The man smiled with professional condolences. "He said he didn't want to saddle you with money you didn't want, but wanted to be sure Andrew couldn't touch it."

John nodded, eyes moist, as he felt Sherlock come up behind. "And by setting these up now, Andy can't contest them?"

The lawyer tilted his head in a sideways nod. "Less likely to be able to, let's say, and far less likely to succeed. Hence all the witnesses."

John was smiling at Ian. "You're giving it all to charity. That's wonderful."

"Most of it, but you're getting enough for the rent." John started to protest, but Ian said, "I insist. Liked putting a roof over your head. Want to keep doing that."

John was touched by a rush of affection and regret for all the missed years. "Like old times," he said, reaching to take the clipboard from Sherlock's hands. "I should probably read this before signing it, yeah?"

"That's not necessary, John." Mycroft's voice came from the window. John hadn't even realized he was there but managed not to jump (much). "The terms are quite generous."

"You Holmes brothers do like to manage my life, don't you?" he asked, shaking his head. He wanted to be angry, but couldn't summon up the energy from beneath the flooding grief as he realized he was losing Ian so soon.

"It's better than having them on the other side," Ian said, a hint of twinkle in his eye, and John laughed. Mycroft and Sherlock were standing side by side with remarkably identical expressions on their faces. Neutral, encouraging and with an odd touch of wariness, as if not wanting to frighten him. Sherlock gave the slightest nod, and not wanting to fight (and figuring he could trust Mycroft this far), John took the pen and scribbled his name where he was told without even glancing at the pages.

There was a rustle like a sigh of relief through the room, but he ignored it, focusing instead on Ian. "What can I do for you?"

The old man just smiled, and John could see the canny fighter who had won battles in countless boardrooms. "You just did. Keep it from Andy, for Geoffrey's sake."

"You're being vindictive, Ian. I'm surprised at you." John's voice was warm.

"No," disagreed Ian. "Fair. Andy doesn't deserve any of it."

"Mr. Littleston was quite firm about that after Andrew's actions the other day." The lawyer spoke from the foot of the bed. "He had put language in his will over a year ago that his son would be ineligible to inherit if ever accused of a crime more serious than a traffic violation. I don't know what caused him to do so, but he obviously saw something in Andrew's personality that worried him. This today is simply the consequence of Andrew's own actions earlier this week. You need not worry about him. He retains his trust fund and should live quite comfortably on that."

"So, if setting up these charities today is new … should I ask who was going to get the money? Or don't I want to know?"

Ian was still smiling at him. "Would have been a shock, wouldn't it?"

John's eyebrows rose. "To say the least, yes." He was almost giddy with relief as his imagination supplied a vision of this lawyer knocking on the door at 221B to tell him Ian was his father and had just left him a fortune, then tipping his hat and walking away leaving John sprawled in a faint on the floor. He would have needed a dozen shock blankets.

Now that the business was over, the doctor and nurses had bustled back over to the bed, and John stepped back to let them fuss, looking around the room, trying to figure out what was wrong (other than the man dying in the bed). "No family or friends, other than yourself," came Sherlock's voice.

Of course. "That's wrong on so many levels," John said. "Everyone should have loved ones nearby when they die."

"Indeed," murmured Sherlock, "So long as you don't come back so they can yell at you for it."

"That was different, and don't mess with me today, Sherlock."

Sherlock shot him a quick smile. "Did you notice the pictures?"

John looked at the array next to the bed. "Yes. I guess he didn't need to keep it secret any longer."

"Regrets, John?" Sherlock's voice was gentle.

"None about the money, but quite a few about Ian." John watched the readings on the machines by the bed and tried to resist the urge to look at the Ian's chart. "I can't say I'm eager to get to know Andy any better, though."

"No, I quite agree. After spending several hours in his company the other day, you're better off."

"Are you discussing the younger son?" asked Mycroft, joining them. "I'm hoping he stays in prison, especially now that he can't rely on Daddy's lawyers to get him off. Of course, it would be easier if we had a stronger charge than mere kidnapping." He eyed his brother.

"Sadly, Mycroft, he didn't actually kill me, so you'll have to manage with what you have," said Sherlock dryly.

"You didn't find anything suspicious about Geoffrey's death, Sherlock? I seem to remember your asking questions at the time." Mycroft's voice was heavy, weighted with meaning.

"Nothing for the courts, brother, but that doesn't mean I didn't find leverage."

"Ah, to keep the good doctor safe."

"Exactly."

John huffed. "You both do know I'm standing right here, right?"

Sherlock ignored him and continued to speak past him to Mycroft. "You know, now that John has all this money, I hope I'm not going to need to find a new flatmate."

Mycroft nodded, also not looking at John. "Indeed. Who else could you convince to live with you? I remember how hellish it was from our childhood."

John looked back and forth between them. "What do you mean, 'now that John has money?' He's just covering the rent."

"Judging by the monthly figure, I imagine he was thinking John might move to someplace bigger," Sherlock said, eyes crinkling with amusement. "Either that, or he's expecting Mrs. Hudson to raise the rent considerably—in which case, Mycroft, I might need to draw on that trust fund from Father for my share."

Mycroft nodded absently, the merest hint of an upturn at the corners of his mouth. "Or perhaps John could put you up in one of his other properties. That nice cottage in Sussex, perhaps."

"Property? What are you two talking about?" John asked urgently. Maybe he should have read those papers after all?

Sherlock said to Mycroft, a broad smile on his face, "Ian did say he wanted to provide a roof over John's head, and it was nice of him to pass along his private homes—though not this one, which seems a little grand for John, don't you think?"

Mycroft and Sherlock continued their bantering, sharing a rare moment of brotherly camaraderie to tease him. John unfolded his notarized copy of the papers he'd signed and skimmed them. It was true. Ian had signed over two properties to John—one in Sussex and one in Scotland. There was a fund set up to cover the expenses and taxes so that John wouldn't be out of pocket but would, quote, always have a home to come to. Meanwhile, he would receive a monthly sum for rent of … he goggled at the figure.

He looked at Ian in disbelief. Across the room, Ian was watching him and when their eyes met, his face broke into a huge, gleeful smile. John couldn't help but smile back. The old man was tricky, he had to grant him that. He'd given him exactly what he said he would—no unnecessary burden of responsibility, no huge lump sum of money—just a monthly payment to cover his rent with the stipulation that anything extra could be pocket money.

He looked back at the paper, making sure he hadn't misread. Somehow, he thought that 15,000 pounds a month would leave him just a _little _extra after he'd paid Mrs. Hudson and bought the groceries.

And across the room, surrounded by blinking machines as well as his doctors and nurses, the look on Ian's face was vibrantly alive.

#

* * *

Note: I hope you enjoyed this! There are at least two more parts to come (because aren't you curious to see what John will do with all that money?) Part #4 will be "Calling in Favors," and will explore that missing scene where John goes to visit Harry. Like John promises Sherlock, you're going to laugh!

Please, reviews are much appreciated!


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